


I Will Try To Fix You.

by WhatTheWentz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, Guilt, Hurt Stiles, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, M/M, Nogitsune Trauma, Planned Suicide, Post-Allison's Death, Post-Nogitsune, Sciles, Scott is a Good Friend, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Survivor Guilt, beginning of a relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:56:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5107109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatTheWentz/pseuds/WhatTheWentz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 3B, Stiles has been suffering from extreme guilt and has bad methods of coping.  Luckily, Scott is there to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Try To Fix You.

**Author's Note:**

> This may be OOC because I have been in the fandom little over a week (that's how long it took me to get through all seasons oops). Sorry in advance, it is my second work in fandom also.

Riiiiiiiiiing.

 

The sound of the alarm clock was loud and obnoxious in the shattered boy who was splayed gracelessly across the bed’s ear, pulling him from his slumber.  Hooded dark eyes open, the colour contrasting against pasty skin.  He wasn’t ready.

 

His hand tapped the alarm, turning it off, a hiss escaping his mouth as his arm brushed the covers.

 

“Stiles!” his father suddenly called up, and he groaned, the name barely recognisable anymore as he tugged onto the sleeve of his hoodie anxiously, “You going to school?”

 

He replied with an inarticulate grunt, burying his face in the covers.  He was too hot from sleeping with a hoodie on, beads of sweat on his neck, but he knew he had no choice in the matter.

 

Nobody could see.  Not his dad, or Malia, when she would occasionally sneak into his room, or even Scott, his best friend, the guy he had been dodging for weeks.

 

“Stiles?” his father shouted again, and there was the sound of footsteps getting gradually louder until the boy’s bedroom door opened, and the figure of his dad stood there.  He sighed, “You have to go back sometime.”  
  


Stiles shook his head, pulling his covers over himself, “I don’t wanna.”

 

“They don’t blame you, son.” his bed dipped slightly as his dad sat at the bottom, “What the Nogitsune did… you weren’t in control.” there was a pause, then the question came, “What’re you doing sleeping in a hoodie?  You’ve got to be absolutely boiling.”

 

Stiles shrugged, “I’m fine.”

 

Lie.

 

He hadn’t been fine in ages.  One of their little gang, Allison, had died two weeks previous, and it was his fault.  The Nogitsune had gotten to him.  He should’ve fought.  He should’ve died.

 

Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered seeing his hands pushing a blade into Scott, his best friend, twisting it, seeing the pain written on his face.  He could remember Coach Finstock falling to the ground, an arrow in his chest.  Kira had almost died, Lydia had gotten hurt, Aiden, Isaac… he couldn’t… he just...

  
Sheriff Stilinski sighed, resting the back of his hand against Stiles’ forehead, then recoiling, “You’re sweating!” he shrieked, the noise making Stiles jump, “Take your hoodie off, son.”

 

“I don’t want to.” Stiles replied, a bit too quickly.

 

His dad huffed, “I think I’m going to try and get you some professional help.”

 

“Already tried that, remember?” Stiles reminisced bitterly on his stay at Eichen House, where he and Malia first… consummated their ‘relationship’, but were ultimately attacked by Stiles’ room-- cellmate.

 

When the Sheriff spoke next, his words were choked by tears, “Please try and just get better, son.  I-- I can’t lose you like…” like I did your mother.

 

Stiles didn’t need to hear the end of that sentence to know what he was going to stay.  He felt his dad get up and flee from his room and attempted to reel in his emotions, tears welling in his eyes.

 

He got himself into an upright position, and waited for the sound of the door opening and closing before pulling out a razor blade from his pocket.  When the car’s ignition started, Stiles pulled up the sleeve of his hoodie, acknowledging with sickening pride the pretty picture of red lines indented into his skin, some fresh, some fading.

 

He wanted to die.  He knew that, and accepted it.  But not quite yet.  He had a date set, a time.  He planned to end everything on the final day of the semester, so that he could be easily forgotten when people went off on their holidays.  Nobody deserved to miss him.

 

He still had a few details to plan for that day, like his method.  He was thinking to steal one of his father’s pistols -- it was quick and easy, potentially painless.

 

Stiles found himself drawn out of his musings when his blade dragged over skin and winced through his teeth.  People may have said cutting didn’t hurt, and after a while, it got less painful, but they were wrong.  For Stiles, it was a jutting, quick ache, followed by an itchiness which was possibly an infection, but he didn’t care.  It was the rush of endorphins afterward, the feeling screaming at him that he was alive, that he cared about.  He just wanted to feel something other than soul crushing guilt, like something in his soul had been eaten away.

 

Stiles, himself, hadn’t eaten anything properly since Allison, except from a few nights previous where the Sheriff had forced him to eat or threatened to take him to the hospital.  Stiles won him over by eating a bit, then giving the waterworks, which he wasn’t even sure if he was faking anymore, telling him he was sorry he was a fuck up and begging him to not take him there.  Then he threw the food up later on, after his dad had held him for half an hour and sat outside his bedroom.

 

Stiles had died before, as a surrogate sacrifice for his dad, but that was temporary.  This?  This is what death felt like.

 

His phone buzzed on his desk and he reached over with his non-bleeding arm to retrieve it, noting that his other side had blood seeping through his hoodie, which would normally be worrying if the euphoria didn’t have him in a drunken hold.

 

He read the screen of his phone and exhaled.

 

20 new messages.

 

Unwillingly, he flicked through him, seeing who actually gave a damn about him.

  
  


Scott McCall

U ok?

where r u?

i miss u

call me?

pls call me

 

Lydia Martin

Are you coming back to school?

reply to me?

why are you ignoring us?

  
  


Stiles snorted a laugh at that.  There was a time in his life where he would’ve been ecstatic to receive a text from Lydia Martin, he was so blindly, obsessively in love with her, but now?  Now, he felt cold and empty.  Now, everyone he loved had a reason to hate his guts, and it was slightly irritating that they didn’t.

 

He put the phone back on the desk, not wanting to read any more, angrily slashing five more lines into his painting, seeing red fill the cuts, then well out.  His heart thumped in his chest as everything threatened to bubble over into tears.

  
But he held them back.  He refused to cry.  He didn’t deserve to.  Everything was his fault, it was his fault that Scott was heartbroken.

 

Stiles curled up, resting his head on the pillow, too hot, blood running down his arm.

 

\--

 

Scott McCall sat in the men’s locker room of Beacon Hills high school, his head bowed as he flicked through his own messages to Stiles, frowning when he saw the lack of replies.

 

The last time Stiles had texted him back was months previous, when they had been bantering over a test in school.

  
  


Stiles Stilinski:

Going to study agh kill me lol

  
  


He knew that ever since Allison’s death and the destruction of the Nogitsune, Stiles had been pretty hard on himself, but hadn’t seen him.  Sheriff Stilinski had told him that he locked himself away in his room and when he wasn’t doing that, he was being frighteningly quiet.

 

He hadn’t been taking his Adderall either, but strangely wasn’t acting hyperactive.  He had just been still and showing obvious signs of what the Sheriff knew was depression.  He had dealt with it himself after the death of his wife, Claudia -- another thing Stiles managed to blame on himself.

 

“McCall!” Coach Finstock’s loud voice shouted, “Get off your ass and get changed, we’re playing a game!”

 

Scott looked up, slightly startled, “Sorry sir.”

 

“Where’s Stilinski?” Coach’s voice became quieter.

 

Scott shrugged, not really sure how to answer it, “He’s still off.  You know, he’s been struggling with everything.”

 

“What’s going on?” Finstock interrogated.

 

Scott tried to avoid the answer.  How would one explain to an over-intense, scary economics teacher and lacrosse coach that Stiles had been possessed by a Nogitsune and had hurt so many people, and led a massacre at the hospital and got one of his friends killed?

 

“Personal stuff.” Scott said, “I can’t reach him.”

 

Coach nodded, “I’ll try contacting his father later.”

 

“Okay, Coach.”

 

\--

 

Later on, in English, Scott frowned as he saw all the empty seats.  Ethan was gone, he had fled after the death of his brother Danny, Allison was dead and Stiles was at home.  Lydia looked back at Scott and gave a small, encouraging smile.

 

She leaned over when the teacher turned away and asked, “Still nothing?”

 

“He’s ignoring us.” Scott sighed, “I’m going to go over to his tonight.  I’m really worried.”  
  


Lydia asked, “Is that wise?  His dad said he’s a bit emotionally fragile tonight.”

 

“Miss Martin?” the teacher suddenly called, “Have you and Mr. McCall got something to share with us?”

 

Lydia looked up, slightly embarrassed, nearly falling off her stool, “No, sir.”  
  


“Good.” he crossed his arms, looking angered, “Then leave the chatter for outside.”

 

\--

 

At the end of the day, Scott was walking over to his motorcycle when he was approached by an emotional Sheriff Stilinski.

 

“Sheriff?” he rested one hand on the older man’s shoulder, “Are you okay?  What’s wrong?”

 

The Sheriff shook his head, drawing in a shaky breath before croaking, “It’s Stiles.  You need t-to… you need to help him.”

 

“What’s wrong with him?” Scott’s heart rate increased in worry, and he knew to Malia, he must’ve stunk, the chemosignals he was giving off drowning in concern.

 

Stilinski sighed, “I think he’s…” he inhaled, then begun again, quieter, “I think he’s been harming himself.  He keeps sleeping in his hoodies, and razorblades have been disappearing from the house…”

 

“I’ll go see him.” Scott steadied himself against the bike, stumbling from the crushing idea of Stiles -- his best friend in the whole world -- cutting himself, “Actually, I was planning to.  He’s not replying to any of my texts.”  
  


The Sheriff nodded, rubbing his face, “He wouldn’t.  He blames himself.  For Allison, for Aiden, for Claudia, for everything.” his voice broke, “I think I’m going to lose him.”  
  


“Hey…” Scott spoke in a soft, comforting tone, “I swear you won’t.  Go get yourself a drink, and I swear, I’ll try to fix this.”  
  


Stilinski nodded, then turned away.

 

Scott sighed, standing still for a moment, thumb rested against the handlebar of his bike.  Malia came over, jutting him out of his thoughts.

 

“What does he mean, harming himself?” she asked.

 

Scott sighed, “It’s difficult to explain.”  
  


“No, I know people would do it at Eichen House, but why would he?” she ignored his glare, “I don’t understand.”  
  


He got on his bike, “Maybe it’s better off that way.”  
  


\--

 

When Scott reached the Stilinski house, the first thing he noticed was that Stiles’ curtains were drawn.  Stiles hardly ever shut the curtains, it was one of his unusual tropes, but a Stiles trope was a good trope.

 

Scott pulled up and went to the door, doing something he hardly ever did at this door -- he knocked.  It felt weird to do so, usually, he would walk right in, using the key under the doormat, or would climb up to Stiles’ window.

 

When he heard no reply but a shuffle on Stiles’ bed, he sighed and used the key, walking in.  It felt weird to step inside the house -- it stunk of sadness, and Scott’s heart sunk as soon as he passed the threshold.

 

“Stiles?” he called upstairs.

 

No reply.

 

He could hear Stiles’ heartbeat, and the human knew that, so there was not much of a point in hiding unless… unless he really didn’t want Scott to see him.  It stung to think about.

 

The wolf ascended the stairs, then walked to Stiles’ room, knocking there as he opened the door, “Hey, bro.”

 

“Hey.” came the half-hearted reply from the lump of patheticness on the bed.

 

Scott stepped inside, trying to not cry from just the image, or the stench of blood, “You’ve been ignoring me.”  
  


“No, I’ve been making you available.” Stiles corrected, sitting up, “There’s hundreds of things more important than me that you need to deal with in your life.”

 

Scott swallowed when he saw Stiles, “Why?” he couldn’t vocalise his sadness.

 

“Why what?” Stiles drew his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.

 

Scott sat in front of him, feeling tears threaten him, “Why have you been cutting yourself?”

 

“I haven--”

 

Scott rose his voice suddenly, his eyes burning red, _“Don’t fucking lie to me!”_ he felt immense guilt when Stiles jumped at that, and saw that his hand had now captured one of Stiles’ wrists, his claws biting the hoodie, “Oh, my God, I’m sorry.” he released him.”  
  


“N-No… It’s okay.” Stiles stammered, “I deserve it anyway.”

 

Scott shook his head, eyes returning to normal, “No, you don’t.  Stiles, I don’t know why you are thinking about yourself like this, but you’re my best friend.”

  
“It’s okay.” Stiles rubbed his face, “It’s all going to end on the last day of semester anyway.”  
  


Scott arched an eyebrow, “What’re you talking about?”

 

“I’m going to end it.” Stiles was scaring him now, more than the Nogitsune ever had, because this was really him.

  
His best friend really wanted to kill himself.

 

Scott took Stiles’ hand in his own, “You listen to me, Stiles Stilinski.  You take your own life and I will chop myself in half.  Do you remember when we stayed at that motel, huh?” he saw tears pricking in Stiles’ eyes, “I was about to set myself on fire, and you said to me that if I did it, I’d have to take you with me.  It’s the same with you.”  
  


“N-No it isn’t.” Stiles’ voice cracked, and the tears spilled over.

  
Scott nodded, also crying, “Yes it is, because you’re my best friend.  You’re more than that.  You’re everything to me.  My family.  I love you, man.  And I can’t… I can’t lose you.  I won't lose you.”

 

“But everything I did...” Stiles confusedly mumbled, sounding extremely innocent, “I don’t understand.”  
  


A hand cupped his cheek, “I can tell the difference between it and you.  It was a monster, who infiltrated you, used you, made you do horrible things.  But that doesn’t make you a bad person.”

 

“I’m-- I’m bad… I’m nothing.” Stiles shook his head, the dam of emotion now crumbling.

 

Scott pressed his lips to Stiles’ gently, briefly, until his breathing slowed slightly, not wanting to send him into a panic attack, “I love you, okay?”

  
Stiles completely broke, sobbing in earnest, wetting his hoodie.  His head rested in Scott’s lap, and the other stroked his back and hair, pulling his hood down.  Their hands linked together at his side.

 

“I know.” Scott whispered emotionally, “I know… Shh… you’re okay.  I’m here.”

 

\--

 

Half an hour later, when the sobs had devolved to small hiccups and sniffles, Stiles laid in the crook of Scott’s arm, hoodie now off, scars on show.

 

“They’re so ugly.” Stiles huffed a weak laugh, “God, I’m an idiot.”

 

Scott pressed his lips to Stiles’ palm, “They’re a part of a story.  But that part is going to end with the help of me, okay?”

 

“I don’t want to pressure you.” Stiles met his eyes, “After Allison and everything--”  
  


Scott interrupted, “I’m fine, I swear.  I loved her, I always will, and I’ve grieved her, and still am, but you’re my best friend and you were planning suicide.”  
  


“I won’t go through with it.” Stiles promised.

 

Scott asked, “If I hadn’tve came here, would you have?”  
  


That leaves Stiles silent for a few uncomfortable minutes, before a hiss escaped him at the throbbing pain.

 

“Here.” Scott held his arm, “Let me.” black veins pulsed on Scott’s hands, and he winced as he drew the pain from his best friend.  He released him after a few seconds, then gave an encouraging smile, “Let's get those cleaned, huh?”

 

Stiles nodded, and Scott led him to the bathroom, retrieving some antiseptic cream and bandages.  Normally, Stiles would’ve cracked a joke about him being a good doggy or being a golden retriever, but he wasn’t in the mood for being cynical at the moment, so just sat silently as Scott fixed him up.

 

They returned to Stiles’ bedroom and into their previous position, Stiles’ head resting against Scott’s chest.

 

“Hey, Scott?” Stiles began.

 

Scott replied, “Yeah, Stiles?”

 

“Did you mean it when you, erm, kissed me?” he blushed as he asked, which Scott found the cutest thing.

 

In reply, he pinched his chin, tilting his head up, pressing his lips to the human’s, feeling his heart rate increase.  It wasn’t a heated kiss that would lead anywhere, just a simple explanation of feelings.

 

When he pulled away, he murmured, “Well, I meant it that time.  And yes, I do love you.”

 

Stiles smiled and rested in his arms, and both of them felt themselves going to sleep.

 

Stiles suddenly spoke, “Scotty?”  
  


“Mm?”

 

“I love you too.”

 

Scott smiled and kissed his forehead.

 

Later on that night, when Sheriff Stilinski returned home, he went upstairs immediately, surprised and pleased when he saw his son curled against and asleep with his friend.  It was simply the happiness that surprised him, as the Sheriff already could tell there was some kind of strange chemistry between Scott and Stiles ever since they got interested in any gender.  He had even joked about it with Scott’s mother, Melissa.

 

He sighed, going into his own room and fetching a blanket, then draped it over the two sleeping, smiling, before walking out.

 

For the first time, everything was starting to look up.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! If you did, and you'd like to see me write more of this fandom, leave kudos and/or comment. My tumblr is i-am-the-poisoned-youth, and prompts are open. I am in many other fandoms, as you'll see there.


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